


the worst in you brings out the best in me

by Icicle



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, Divorce, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Legacy: A Victurio Anthology, M/M, Makkachin and Potya are immortal, Mutual Pining, Older Yuri and Victor, Post-Canon, Recovery, Slow Burn, Victor is 38 and Yuri is 26, post-retirement, two oblivious assholes in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icicle/pseuds/Icicle
Summary: Nearing his 40th birthday, Victor returns to Russia, barely resembling the once legendary skater. Dealing with a divorce and depression, he believes his best days are behind him until Yuri forces his way back in his life. Slowly, Victor starts to recover and the two former teammates see each other in a different light. Too bad they are both oblivious idiots.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Legacy: Victurio Anthology Collection, which raised money for charity and showcased Yuri and Victor's relationship in a positive light. Thanks so much to ashiiblack for holding my hand through this and sticking with me even when I was difficult. You're the best ♥

**-1-**

Ever since he returned to Russia, the days blend together.

Viktor lies in bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, Makkachin curled up at his side. He wags his tail while biting a chew toy—and Viktor just stares. At the ceiling. At the wall. At the curtains and their ever-thickening layer of dust.

Dust used to bother him. He’s not sure why it doesn’t matter anymore, why tracing imaginary lines on the geometric patterns of the curtains, like a never-ending connect the dots game seems like a more productive use of his time.

It just is.

Dust seems so insignificant now. Like getting up early and running. Keeping a consistent schedule. Viktor has no idea why these things used to matter so much. It feels like a lifetime ago, like it happened to a different person.

Staring. Contemplating. Thinking. That’s his life now. Post-Retirement. He's completely and utterly pathetic. If only all his rivals and former admirers could see him now— a washed-up has been who can barely leave his bed.

Viktor sighs and scratches Makkachin on his back, massaging his skin through thick fur and more than a handful of knots. The poor dog is in dire need of a grooming appointment. When did he turn into such a shitty owner?

Makkachin drops his chew toy, whining in response. He leans into Viktor’s touch, turning his head all the way around until it rests on Viktor’s knee. Makka pouts — large, black eyes, begging Viktor to go for a walk with every smack of his tail.

“Not right now, boy,” Viktor whispers. “It’s late. Or maybe it’s early?”

Viktor has no idea what day or time it is. Once the insufferable wall clock ran out of batteries, he lost track. At least he doesn’t miss the ticking. The black-out curtains he insisted on for privacy, keep him even further removed from reality. Really, he should be concerned, but his limbs feel much too heavy to move, anchoring him to the bed.

“Why don’t we take a nap instead?” Viktor turns to Makkachin, who huffs in response. “We’ll go on a walk later.” Yawning, he tilts his head back, jaw dropping. His eyes flutter closed and the last thing Viktor remembers is the steady sound of Makka’s breathing beside him before losing consciousness.

Some time later, a shrill alarm pulses through Viktor's ears, rousing him from sleep. He doesn’t know if he’s dreaming, but he needs that obnoxious ringing to stop before his headache gets any worse. Why did he ever choose that ringtone?

Reluctantly, he reaches over to the closest nightstand, opening the drawer. He pulls out his phone and answers it, not remembering why he hid it there in the first place. “Hello?” he mutters, voice hoarse.

“Vitya, I’ve been trying to reach you for days! You'd better have a good explanation—”

When Viktor hears Yakov’s gruff voice on the other end, he doesn’t know how to respond. He blinks at the wall while Yakov raises his voice.

Viktor’s entire head throbs; just holding his phone against his ear takes more effort than it should. Yakov lectures him and he can’t make out the words. Good thing Viktor is used to Yakov’s lectures.

“Why are you so upset?” Viktor asks. “Didn’t we just talk yesterday? Or maybe the day before?” He could've sworn they talked and he declined yet another dinner invitation.

“That was more than a week ago, Vitya.”

Viktor gasps, breath hitching as he digests the information. A week! He knew he’d lost track of time, but that’s just…

“Things can’t go on like this, Vitya.” Yakov’s voice cracks, broken in a way that Viktor hasn’t heard since he broke the news of his divorce.

Viktor pauses for a moment. The silence drags between them, more suffocating than a silver medal. He bites down on his tongue until he almost tastes blood, sobering himself for another lashing. “I know.”

“I expect you to come to dinner tomorrow. And every night this week. You’re 38 years old now Vitya, not a child. I shouldn’t have to—”

His heart begins to pound, much too loud for his overcrowded mind, his chest tightening. He can’t deal with this right now. “What…Yakov, I’m losing you…I’ll have to call you back.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear, rubbing it against the bed comforter. Makkachin mistakes his motion as an invitation to play. He starts licking the phone, then the back of his hand. Oh, Makka. Viktor almost cracks a smile, petting his most loyal companion with trembling fingers, while Yakov continues to shout in the background.

He lets Yakov shout for a few seconds longer and then hangs up. Yakov must be pretty red in the face and Viktor doesn’t want him to overdo it. As he goes to lock his phone, a low battery alert pops onto the screen. He ignores it and silences the ringer, certain Yakov will continue calling.

Yakov means well. Deep down, Viktor knows this. The louder Yakov yells, the more it means he’s worried— that he cares. But Yakov has only become grumpier with age, demanding explanations to questions that Viktor can’t answer — like why did his marriage fall apart?

He doesn’t have the energy to discuss that right now. He’s not sure if he ever will again. The last thing he wants to think about are his past mistakes.

All he wants to do is sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

“Get up! Get the fuck off that bed now!”

Viktor groans as his warm covers are ripped away. Mind still hazy, he opens his eyes to face the intruder. What kind of traitor steals his covers? He finds himself gawking at the last person he expected to see. Yuri Plisetsky.

“Yuri?” Viktor blinks, rubbing his eyes to make sure he isn’t dreaming. “What are you doing here? How’d you get in?”

“Through the front door, idiot.” Yuri tosses the blankets halfway across the room and Viktor knows his day is about to get infinitely worse. Yuri appears to be in one of his moods and Viktor is in no state to handle him.

“When did I give you a key?” He wants to get rid of Yuri as quickly as possible.

“You didn’t.” Yuri flashes a menacing smile, showing off perfectly white teeth. “Guess, the doorman is more of a Yuri Plisetsky fan than Viktor Nikiforov. He let me in. No questions asked.”

Viktor rolls his eyes but accepts Yuri’s response. When was the last time he even talked to his doorman? He thought only management had an extra set of keys. Confused, he runs both hands through his hair, cringing at the greasy strands.

“You look like shit,” Yuri tells him, much too pleased with himself. With a violent pull, he yanks open all the curtains and Viktor groans again.

Resigned that Yuri won’t be leaving anytime soon, Viktor pushes himself up against the headboard, resting his back against it and sitting up. “Did Yakov send you?” He blinks, eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the room.

“No, he didn’t.” Yuri glares, regarding him with disgust. “And I don’t give a shit what your issues are, if you’re still crying over the piggy or something else. But you’re going to get up and take a shower.” He steps closer to Viktor, sniffs him, then wrinkles his nose. “Change your clothes too. You reek, asshole. When did you get so gross? After that, you'll call Yakov.”

Viktor tries to protest but Yuri cuts him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Yakov has been on the verge of a mental breakdown!” His voice rises, shaking with every word. “Ever since you hung up on him yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Viktor knows he dozed off, but he swears he spoke to Yakov only hours ago.

“Yes, yesterday," Yuri snaps. He glares at Viktor, clenching his fists. “Look…I don’t need your excuses, Viktor. I already know you’re a selfish asshole who never keeps his word.” His eyes flicker with pain before turning cold again. “You’re not my problem anymore. But Yakov is! And I’ll be damned if I let him have another heart attack worrying over a piece of shit like you.” He shakes his head, so much disappointment in his eyes that Viktor can barely look at him. “So you better get the fuck out of that bed before I make you!”

Guilt eats at Viktor's stomach, quickly replacing his annoyance toward Yuri. He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Is Yakov okay?” Viktor has been so lost in his own world, his own pain, that he forgets that Yakov isn’t young anymore— that he has actual health problems and needs to keep his stress levels at a minimum. He shouldn’t even be coaching. He definitely doesn’t need to deal with Viktor and his bullshit anymore.

“For now. No thanks to you.” The pain and accusation in Yuri's glare makes Viktor want to disappear. He cringes, twisting his fingers in the bed sheets, wishing they would strangle him.

Yuri purses his lips, still eyeing Viktor warily. He tugs on his sweatshirt, pulling down the sleeves, then zippers it closed. “Look, I’m going to take the beast for a walk. God knows when was the last time he had a proper walk.” He clicks his tongue, silently calling Viktor out on more of his ineptitudes.

At the sound of the word walk, Makkachin pokes his head in the doorway. He wags his tail and Yuri rolls his eyes. “By the time we get back, you better be showered and dressed, or god help me I’ll post videos of your sorry ass all over Instagram. We’ll see how many sponsorships you keep.”

Viktor chokes, bile rising in his throat. He forces a straight face as he swallows the sour liquid back down. Threatening to expose Viktor on social media proves how serious Yuri is. He is so fucked. With a heavy sigh, he watches Yuri and Makka retreat from his bedroom. Not fully understanding what occurred, he stares at the doorway like an idiot.

 

 

* * *

Viktor towel dries his hair, making sure not to tug at the delicate strands. Over the last few years, his hair has continued to thin. He doesn’t need to add breakage to his long list of problems. He feels better after his shower though, more grounded than he has in days. Fully dressed, he walks toward the kitchen, hoping to wait for Yuri and save the last shreds of his dignity.

His shower must have taken longer than he thought. His jaw drops as he sees Yuri fiddling around in the cabinets, putting away what appears to be a week’s worth of groceries.

“Well, look who finally joined the land of the living.” Yuri offers a half-smile, the first friendly gesture since he crashed into his apartment. Viktor can only stare. Is Yuri teasing him? Playfully?

“I-I—” Makka saves his clumsy stuttering, running over to him. He almost tackles Viktor with his front paws, covering Viktor’s face with kisses.

“Idiot dog still seems to like you for some reason. That’s why cats are so much better. You actually have to _earn_ their affection.”

“Potya likes me too,” Viktor insists. He wonders if he fell asleep in the shower. This entire conversation and situation is surreal. He never thought he'd find Yuri in his kitchen being so domestic. “Are those groceries?” Viktor asks, cringing at his own stupidity.

For once, Yuri appears to let his comment slide. He unpacks the last bag, filled with various greens and canned beans. “There are enough groceries here to last you a week.” He points to the cans. “Where do these go?”

“On the top shelf,” Viktor says, knitting his eyebrows together, not quite understanding Yuri’s change of attitude.

Yuri scowls as he realizes that he can’t reach the top shelf. Even after his growth spurt, he is still a couple of inches shorter than Viktor, much to his dismay and Viktor’s amusement.

“I got it.” As Viktor grabs the cans from Yuri, their fingers brush together and Viktor jumps at the spark of static electricity. He notices a slight flush in Yuri’s cheeks. Interesting. He hadn’t been expecting that. Not wanting to risk Yuri’s wrath, Viktor puts the cans away, turning his back to Yuri.

“You better eat,” Yuri tells him and the moment is lost. Yuri is back to his usual mocking tone. “And call Yakov. I’ll be back next week around dinner time.” He crosses his arms, giving Viktor a stern look and Viktor doesn’t remember Yuri's eyes being quite so green. “And unless you want me to bring Lilia here...you better be dressed and ready to eat.”

“Okay,” Viktor agrees without hesitation. He knows better than to argue with Yuri when he gets like this, much too stubborn for own his good. Without saying a word, they finish putting away the groceries. They fold up the bags, nestling them away in a storage drawer. Viktor is surprised at how comfortable the silence feels.

As Yuri grumbles goodbye and heads to the door, Viktor is left overwhelmed, trying to figure out what happened. He has a lot to process but has regained enough of his senses to know he needs to say something. “Yuri,” he calls out as his hand reaches the doorknob, “thank you.” Surprisingly, he means it.

“Whatever,” Yuri grumbles. He notices Yuri’s cheeks tinge pink again as he turns around to face the door. “Don’t make a big thing about it, idiot…just be dressed and ready next week. I have better things to do than look after an old man like you.”

After locking the door behind him, Viktor notices his stomach rumble. When was the last time he ate? He opens the cabinets, curious to see what else Yuri stocked in his pantry. He finds a box of Viktor’s favorite black tea and a package of Yuri’s favorite cookies— the kind Viktor used to buy for Yuri and hide from Yakov back when they were teammates and Yuri was still a kid.

Viktor’s never had much of a sweet tooth, but he’s still touched at the gesture. He should probably be annoyed at Yuri’s intrusion and insults, especially since they haven’t talked much in the last few years. Yuri's bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Yet, since his arrival back in Russia, no one else has had the guts to force their way into Viktor’s apartment, let alone talk to him like that, forcing him out of bed.

Yuri Plisetsky may have strange ways of showing his affection, but for the first time in weeks, Viktor feels the tiniest sliver of hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**-2-**

Yuri has lost his fucking mind. There’s no other explanation.

As he enters the hallway leading toward Viktor’s apartment, panic rises in his stomach. His hands shake, clutched around the three overstuffed grocery bags balanced against his chest, his feet barely moving forward.

It’s been a week since he last stormed into Viktor’s apartment – yanking him out of bed, threatening to ruin what’s left of his legacy. Part of him feels guilty, even embarrassed, but Viktor, the great idiot that he is, needed to hear it. Before coming over, he checked in with Yakov, who reported that Viktor had returned all his calls but also declined his dinner invitations, claiming that he wasn’t up for it yet.

This wouldn't do.

When Viktor moved to Japan, Yuri became Yakov’s favorite. He’s gotten used to being Yakov’s number one, and he’s not ready to give it up. Visiting Viktor has _nothing_ to do with the huge, not-so-secret crush he used to have on him back when he was a teenager.

Ever since Viktor returned to Russia, he’s been slowly killing himself and Yakov in the process. Yuri refuses to accept that. This might be Yuri’s last skating season, his last chance to break Viktor's records. He needs Yakov’s undivided attention. No, he demands it.

Although he takes the slowest steps possible, he eventually reaches the door to Viktor’s apartment. With his hands still trembling, he gawks at the door. Beads of sweat drip down his eyebrows, his arms growing weary, bags threatening to slip.

Fuck. Why is he so nervous? This shouldn’t be so hard. He’ll drop off the groceries, make sure the idiot eats, and leave. Minimal contact with Viktor. Easy as that.

Or maybe he can see if Viktor is up to watching a movie? Or going out for a bit? He probably hasn’t stretched his legs in days and Yuri’s schedule _is_ more open during the off season. Maybe they can...

What the fuck? Yuri wants to bang his head against the wall. Since when did he revert to being such an idiot? He isn’t that same stupid kid who ran off to Japan, begging for Viktor’s approval. He's the legend now. None of that matters anymore. He’s _way_ over it. Isn’t he?

“Whatever, Viktor is still a shithead,” he mutters under his breath. With his luck, Viktor might still be in bed and dinner won’t happen. It’s not like Viktor has ever taken him seriously in the past. Either way, he needs to get this over with and deal with the consequences later.

After two rushed knocks, Viktor answers the door. “Hello, Yura. Come in.”

Viktor stands in the doorway, looking the part of the perfect gentleman, fake smile in place. He ushers Yuri in by putting his arm on his shoulder as if he were some formal guest. Yuri tries not to flush at the contact. What's his game? Once the door is closed behind them, Makkachin barks, greeting him by attacking Yuri’s legs, trying to find out what he brought inside the bags.

“Woah! Woah! Get that beast under control or you won’t have any food for next week.”

“Makka, down.” Viktor extends both hands, his wrists bent, palms facing toward the ground. “If you behave, I’ll give you a treat later. Once company leaves.” Makkachin whines but listens, leaving Yuri alone, scurrying to the dog bed instead.

Yuri frowns. “Since when am I company?” He readjusts the bags against his chest. Viktor gives a pointed look and Yuri resists the urge to rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Where should I put these, asshole? If I don’t put them down soon, they’re gonna break all over the floor. And I’m not cleaning that shit up. I’m not your fucking maid.”

Viktor chuckles. “Here, I’ll take them.” His tone is much too polite, not rising to Yuri’s bait. He fully expected some lewd comeback about Yuri in a maid costume. Something is definitely up. Raising an eyebrow, he allows Viktor to take the groceries.

“I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home, Yura.”

“Whatever.”

Yuri watches Viktor walk away with the groceries, staring at the long, lean lines of his back and fitted trousers for a moment too long. He isn’t sure what he expected. Viktor has a talent for not listening. To anyone. He knew there was a chance he’d show up and Viktor would be in the same state as last week. If not worse. Yuri can't tell why Viktor is acting so obviously fake, but he needs answers.

“Yura, I’m so glad you could join me.” Viktor flashes a forced smile, faker than the ones he uses for the media. The bastard must either be out of practice or trying too hard. He crosses his legs, infuriatingly graceful as ever, leaning back against the leather couch. He leans much too close to Yuri, causing his chest to tighten.

Determined to remain in control, Yuri pulls away, taking out his frustrations on his glass of water instead. “Since when do you call me, Yura?” He narrows his eyes. “We’re not that close, _Vitya_ ,” he spits, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Sure, we are, Yuri. I’ve known you almost your entire life.” That same fake smile returns and Yuri wants nothing more than to punch it off his stupid, pretty face.

“That doesn’t mean we’re friends,” Yuri practically growls. “It’s not like we’ve kept in touch since you left.”

 _You didn't even tell me you were back in Russia. I had to find out from Yakov_ , he wants to add but doesn't. He can't give Viktor any ammunition, not when he can use it against him so easily.

“Yuri, I—” Viktor closes his mouth, biting down on his bottom lip. He shuts his eyes, releasing a heavy breath. When he opens them again, he just stares— eyes clear but vacant, completely resigned.

Yuri stiffens. A chill rips through him, knocking out all his air, chest heavy and tight as if he'd just face planted on the ice. He’s never seen Viktor act like this. The Viktor he knows usually jumps at the chance to pick fights with him. It’s always been their way. This speechless Viktor is messing with his head. Why is he acting so fucking weird? He needs to get a grip and reminds himself to breathe.

After several awkward seconds, Viktor speaks again, his voice eerily monotonous. “I hope you’re comfortable. I don’t actually have anything prepared for dinner but we can—”

“What the fuck Viktor?” Yuri shakes his head, putting down the glass of water. “Why are you treating me like some fucking dinner guest?”

“Aren’t you my guest?” Viktor's voice is just as devoid of emotion as his eyes.

“Of course not, asshole!” Yuri shouts, shaking his hands in the air. “You didn’t invite me and I’m not here as your friend or one of your adoring fans.”

The tightness in his chest dispels, replaced by a familiar rage. This has to stop. He needs a reaction from Viktor. Those fucking lifeless eyes are too much to bear. Good thing pissing off people is what Yuri does best.

“Although…I hear Nikiforov fans are wearing thin these days, practically giving their merch away for free on ebay.” Yuri smirks. Time to land the final blow. “Pity what a good scandal does to a legacy.”

Viktor’s eyes widen. He slams down the glass he’s holding on the coffee table, his entire face tight. Yuri can almost feel the fury radiating off him. His smile widens. Success. This is what Yuri wanted. He missed that fire. He needed it. Being on the receiving end of Viktor’s fury isn’t pleasant either, but anything is better than that vacant stare and fake smile.

“Then why are you here, _Yura_? I doubt you came over to reminisce about my career.”

Yuri scoffs. Based on Viktor’s red face, he expected more of a lashing. Maybe it’s still coming? He can’t take his guard down. Even so, things are getting out of hand, much like they always do when Viktor’s involved.

“Yura? I _don’t_ have all night.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Yuri spits back. “I’m _only_ here to check on you. For Yakov. Not because I care or anything.” He throws his head back, resting it against the headrest, eyes focusing on the ceiling. He can’t look at Viktor right now, afraid he’ll see right through his lie. “And—to make sure you keep your end of the bargain.” Why does Viktor make everything so goddamn hard?

“Is that all?”

“Yes,” Yuri breathes.

“I see.” A long pause stretches between them. “Well, as you can see, I’m _fine_. You can report that back to Yakov and be on your way.” Viktor drops the polite act, replacing it with a tone so cold that it causes Yuri to shudder. He snaps his eyes away from the ceiling and toward Viktor, surprised to find him looking so betrayed.

Yuri bristles, digging his nails into the couch cushions. Well, he wanted a reaction. “Are you _really fine_?” They both know the answer.

“I am,” Viktor insists. He flashes that smile again— almost menacing and filled with lies. “I don’t need you to babysit me. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” He scoffs. “I’ve always been on my own.”

Shaking his head, Yuri huffs. He studies Viktor, dissecting his appearance, starting with his hair. While Viktor might appear more put together than Yuri suspected, he isn’t convinced. Yes, he’s showered and dressed, hair styled _enough_ to cover his massive forehead. But that’s all on the surface. If Yuri looks deeper, he can still see remnants of dark circles underneath his eyes, peering through thick concealer. They must be pretty fucking deep if Yuri can still see them. His hair is longer too and unmanageable, cheekbones sharper than Yuri’s ever seen. The Viktor he knows never goes two weeks without a trim, and Yuri is certain that shirt used to be fitted. Baggy shirts have never been Viktor’s style.

This idiot is not okay — and as much as Yuri hates him — as much as Viktor’s hurt him in the past — Yuri _can’t_ let this go.

“Liar,” he hisses. “You’re not fine. And I’m not leaving.” Stretching out, he extends his legs, propping them up on the coffee table.

“Watch the furniture!” Viktor swats Yuri’s feet, but he doesn’t budge. Rather, he crosses his arms in front of his chest, showing Viktor he isn’t joking.

_“Yuri!”_

_“Viktor!”_

_“Yuri!”_

_“Viktor!”_

Yuri sticks his tongue out and pushes the heel of his shoe against the coffee table, ready to scuff the shit out of it. He wants to laugh, knowing that he's won. Finally, Viktor throws his arms up in defeat. “Fine.” He sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “How are you still such a child?”

Yuri shrugs. “I’m not. I just know how to win. Whatever it takes, right? Learned from the best.”

Shaking his head, Viktor turns toward Yuri, his expression softening. “So what are we making for dinner?”

 

* * *

After the initial drama, dinner is a muted, almost pleasant affair.

When they aren’t aiming for each other’s throats, Viktor and Yuri work surprisingly well together. “Can you pass the veggies?”

“Here.” Yuri hands Viktor the cut up vegetables, watching him mix them into the sauce.

“Excellent job cutting them,” Viktor says with a reassuring smile. “They are so even. Just like a professional.”

“Thanks." Yuri breaks out into a wide smile. His cheeks flush and Yuri can’t believe that a compliment from Viktor still flusters him. He’s not that same wide-eyed kid anymore, but being this close to Viktor is unnerving. He needs to focus on something else before he makes a fool of himself.

“The pasta is just about ready.”

“Great!” Viktor stops stirring the sauce, putting down the spoon he’s using on top of a napkin. “Why don’t you set the table? This should be done in a minute and I’ll bring it over.” He opens a drawer full of silverware. “You should know where the plates and napkins are.”

Yuri hesitates. “Uh…okay.” He wants to protest, complain that he’s _just_ as capable of finishing the dinner, but things are going so well now. Since they started cooking, Viktor looks so alive, more so than he has in ages. He looks kind of adorable wearing an apron too. Not that Yuri would ever admit it. He also doesn’t want to risk this truce. They’ve managed to prepare an entire meal without killing each other. He supposes he can hold out a bit longer and do what he’s told.

He sets the table the way his grandfather taught him, debating on whether or not he should include wine glasses. He decides against it. If Viktor questions him, he’ll claim alcohol is prohibited with his diet. That should close the subject. Once he’s satisfied with the place settings, he sits down in the chair he remembers Yuuri always chose, right next to Viktor’s. At least for tonight, it belongs to him. He still can't believe that idiot was stupid enough to let Viktor go.

“It’s all set, old man.” Yuri leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. He taps his fingers against the table. “Hurry up before I starve.”

“Oh, so that’s the _real_ reason why you’re here. You should’ve said.”

“Hey! I'd much rather a home cooked meal without Lilia's drama. Even if it is with you.” Yuri chuckles a little awkwardly, hoping to show Viktor that he isn’t serious. He’s never been good at small talk. Charming people was always Viktor’s thing. Yuri has never needed people’s love. Respect is enough.

With a small smile, Viktor places two plates in front of Yuri, one full of spaghetti and the other salad. “I hope you like it.” He pats Yuri’s forearm. “Thank you for the groceries.”

“It’s nothing.” Yuri lowers his gaze onto his plate of pasta and takes a bite. “I was out shopping anyway.”

Yuri is hungrier than he thought. The simple primavera pasta dish tastes even better than it smells. He practically inhales it before remembering that he isn’t home alone and should make conversation with Viktor. Lifting his head, he glances at Viktor, who unlike Yuri appears to be only pushing food around his plate.

“Slow down, Yura,” Viktor says. “There’s plenty more. And—you don’t want to choke.”

“Shut up! I skipped lunch,” Yuri lies. He glares at Viktor. “Why aren’t you eating? This shit is pretty good. You better eat.”

Viktor puts down his fork, his cheeks reddening slightly. “I’m not hungry.”

Yuri stabs a piece of zucchini, deepening his scowl. “Well, you better fucking eat. I didn’t go out of my way to buy these groceries to watch you play with your food.”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “I’m not a child. I appreciate you doing this and coming over, but don’t forget your place. I’m still older than you. And I thought you said you were already out.”

Yuri shrugs. “Whatever.” He goes back to curling too much spaghetti onto his fork. “Do what you want, but I promised to give Yakov a full report of our dinner.”

Viktor’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t!”

“What’s it to me?” Yuri says between bites. He takes a long gulp of water. “I tried to do you a favor by coming here instead of Yakov, but if this is the thanks I get… next time I’ll just let him check on you himself.” Yuri slurps some more noodles. “Or _maybe_ I’ll even send Lilia.”

Viktor narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t?”

“It’s been six months of this crap, Viktor. Wanna to try me?”

“You bastard.”

Laughing, Yuri shakes his head. “It’s your choice.”

Viktor grimaces, then looks down at his plate and sulks. He examines his food like eating would be the world’s biggest challenge. “Last time I ate real food, I threw up.” He doesn't meet Yuri's eyes and his voice is so quiet that Yuri barely hears him.

Yuri thins his lips. Viktor’s honesty surprises him. For as long as he's known him, Viktor has been the king of facades and excuses. But it doesn’t look like he’s faking this time. He’s making an actual effort, so Yuri supposes he can meet him halfway.

“I’ll make you a deal," Yuri says. He motions toward Viktor's plate. “You eat some of that and some dessert and I’ll tell Yakov to back off for a bit.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow as if unsure whether or not he can trust Yuri.

“And—I’ll take the beast for a long walk too. Deal?”

Yuri stares at Viktor. Expectantly. He’s trying not to be too hopeful or portray any emotion the way Viktor always does when he’s serious. Too bad Yuri is shit at hiding his emotions.

He plays with his napkin instead, twisting it in his lap while he waits for Viktor’s answer.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

Yuri responds with a small smile, not wanting to appear too smug and have Viktor change his mind. “So when did you learn to cook anyway? Georgi swears your attempt at a birthday cake put him in the hospital.”

Viktor drops his fork, which clangs against the floor. He gawks at Yuri. For a second, Yuri thinks he fucked up again, destroyed any progress they’d made.

He’s about to try and change the subject when Viktor breaks out into laughter. His chest shakes, laughing so hard that tears escape his eyes. “I forgot about that,” Viktor says, red in the face. “Poor Georgi was sick for three days.”

Yuri shakes his head, relieved that Viktor isn’t angry. He laughs too.

The knot that had been building in Yuri’s chest loosens. Things are looking up. Maybe he doesn’t need to continue bribing Viktor’s doorman to spy on him after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**-3-**

“Thanks for helping me clean up.” Viktor rewards Yuri with a bright smile and Yuri has to bite down the urge to smile back like some idiot fanboy.

“Whatever.” Yuri unloads plates from the dishwasher, drying them carefully. He tells himself that he’s not charmed by Viktor’s smile even if he is glad the bastard’s smiling again. This whole thing is so freaking bizarre. Yuri used to hate domesticity.

“Do you want to maybe stay and watch a movie? Or something?”

Yuri almost drops the plate he’s holding so taken aback by Viktor’s request. They’ve been doing this awkward dinner arrangement for a couple of months now. Viktor has never asked him to stay. If anything, he usually pushes him to leave early.

Viktor tenses at Yuri’s silence, glancing down at the utensils he’s rinsing off instead. “Unless you have other plans,” Viktor adds quickly. “I remember being young once. Just ignore me.”

“Shut up,” Yuri says, more than a little annoyed. “You might be ancient but you aren’t terrible company.” Yuri takes a breath, regaining his composure. He swats Viktor with the towel he’s using to dry dishes, right on the ass. “I guess I can stay for a bit.” He watches Viktor twitch and hopes he sounds casual rather than desperate. It’s getting harder to ignore his increasing heart rate, how excited he is at the idea of sitting close to Viktor, how deliciously flushed Viktor looked when Yuri smacked his ass.

Viktor picks up his head, meeting Yuri’s eyes. “Is that a yes?” The idiot looks much too hopeful.

“I pick the movie,” Yuri insists. He waves the towel in the air. “There’s no way I trust your taste. You’d probably pick some disgusting romance.” He pretends to retch into the dishwasher.

“You have a deal.” Viktor grins, showing off those amazing cheekbones, which Yuri has not been thinking about licking since they sat down for dinner.

Still dazed, Yuri startles when Viktor leans over and bumps him with his hips. He almost loses his balance. This time he can’t ignore the flutter in his chest. But Yuri knows that Viktor is only humoring him.

He’s so beyond fucked.

 

* * *

 

“Yura, I don’t understand how you like these movies!” Viktor wraps his hands in his oversized sweatshirt, fingering the fringed sleeves. He leans into Yuri’s touch, resting his head against Yuri’s shoulder. Yuri grumbles, pretending he’s not secretly thrilled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuri says in between mouthfuls of popcorn, telling himself that everything is normal.

“Scary movies!” Viktor gestures with his hands. “Why would anyone find it fun to be scared?”

Before Yuri can answer, another gruesome murder takes place, fake blood gushing all over the screen, disturbing music growing louder. The camera zooms in on the dead body. Viktor shrieks, leaning further into Yuri’s shoulder, rubbing his head against Yuri’s collar bone, hiding his face.

Yuri chuckles, pleased that he guessed right about Viktor being a scaredy cat. “I thought you’d like it since it’s Japanese,” Yuri lies. Viktor flinches and Yuri freezes, realizing the idiotic thing he just said. Why the fuck did he have to bring up Japan? Holding his breath, he chucks a couple pieces of popcorn at Viktor’s head, praying to distract him. “I _don’t_ get scared. The more blood and guts the better.”

He feels Viktor shudder against him and Yuri is filled with the urge to comfort him, to reach out and stroke his hair. Luckily, he stops himself, knowing that Viktor won't welcome it. The only reason why he’s even leaning on Yuri is because he’s scared. He’s definitely not flirting. It's been awhile since Yuri's been this close to someone. He needs to get a grip.

By the middle of the movie, Viktor has reduced his nails to stubs and wrapped his arms so tightly around Yuri’s forearm, that he’d be surprised if he doesn’t wake up full of bruises. His head still rests on Yuri’s shoulder and Yuri’s never been happier to be used as a human shield.

He’s tried so hard to convince himself that he's over his crush on Viktor— that his feelings are juvenile and not real. But the more time they spend together, the more Yuri finds himself thinking about Viktor when they aren’t together.

Yuri hates himself. More than usual. At twenty-six, he’s turned into a love-sick idiot. He’s everything he _used_ to hate. Skating is supposed to be his only passion. If Otabek were still talking to him, he’d have a field day with this latest development. How did things turn out this way?

As the film approaches the ending, Yuri senses that something is on Viktor’s mind. He steals small glances at Yuri and sighs. Normally, Yuri likes to focus on movies. He threatens anyone with a remote shoved down their throat if they dare disturb him. But Yuri has seen this movie before and finds himself watching Viktor more than the screen. It’s not like he’s been overly talkative in these last few weeks, at least for Viktor's standards. This version of Viktor is still a shell of the confident, outgoing man Yuri used to know. If Viktor wants to talk, then he should probably listen.

“What?” Yuri huffs, turning toward Viktor. “Just say whatever it is, Vitya. You’re thinking so hard it’s hurting my head.”

“Yura, so mean, as usual.” Viktor gives a small laugh, his neck flushing. He unwraps his arms from Yuri’s wrist and leans away from him, further back onto the couch. “Just listen for once, okay?” His expression turns serious as he grabs a nearby pillow, hugging it to his chest. “You don’t have to keep doing this, coming every week to check up on me." He sounds almost regretful. “I really will be okay. I just need some time. And you must have better things to do.” Viktor hides his face in the pillow. “I don’t deserve this—”

“Shut up!” Yuri yells. He slams down the bowl of popcorn. “I don’t wanna hear you talk like that.”

Viktor drops the pillow. “You agreed to listen—”

“No. You listen!” Viktor’s eyes widen and Yuri clutches his knuckles, itching to crack them. He hates when Viktor gets in these self-deprecating moods. It pisses him off to no end. “You must’ve had better things to do when I was a kid and you spent time with me, right?”

“Well, that was—”

“Don’t you dare say different!” A familiar heat rises in Yuri’s face. “And—what if I actually want to be here, asshole? Ever consider that?”

Viktor blinks. He regards Yuri with a thoughtful expression, tilting his head. “Well, no I guess not.”

“Well, I do,” Yuri insists, clicking his tongue. How could Viktor be so dense? “Let’s drop it okay?”

“Okay,” Viktor whispers, not sounding quite convinced. “Thank you, Yura.”

“Shut up and watch the movie. It’s almost over.”

Viktor smiles, his hair reflecting the blue television light, flaunting a sappy grin. "Whatever you say, Yura." He relaxes again, leaning into Yuri, pressing their knees together. Yuri wonders how he can shift his moods so easily, but he much rather deal with an affectionate Viktor than a miserable one.

As if reading his mind, Viktor laughs and squeezes Yuri's elbow. "You're pretty cute when you're angry." His fingers linger a bit too long.

Yuri shakes his head, resisting the urge to smile. "Don't fucking start with me, Vitya." Viktor responds with a hum and burrows his head on Yuri's shoulder. Within minutes, Yuri can hear Viktor's breathing slow, the idiot clearly falling asleep.

Yuri isn't stupid. He knows that Viktor is only teasing him, but it's been a long time since anyone has invaded his personal space. The last time he had a movie night was with Otabek. It was kind of their thing, countless movie marathons where they sat in silence, enjoying each other's presence. He's never been much of a cuddler, but Yuri can't deny how much he's relishing Viktor's warmth, his solid body pressed against him. He promised to focus only on skating this upcoming season, but what's the harm in indulging this one time? It's not like Viktor would ever want him back.

Ignoring the growing tightness in his chest, Yuri runs his fingers through Viktor's hair, savoring the silkiness of the fine strands. Movie forgotten, he admires Viktor, still so fucking beautiful. He looks so much younger like this— eyes closed, face relaxed, long, silver hair spilling onto the dark couch— so much like the vintage Viktor posters Yuri used to have in his childhood bedroom that he’ll never admit to even under threat of death.

When Yuri was a child, he used to dream about what it would be like to kiss Viktor Nikiforov, whether or not his skin would be soft. Once he met the idiot, his infatuation faded, but he still always wondered.

Holding his breath, he brushes Viktor’s bangs off his face. He leans over and presses a soft kiss onto his forehead. Viktor stirs, letting out an adorable sigh. Yuri’s lips tingle and his heart clenches. He's so fucking screwed. No matter how much he wants to deny it, he's never gotten over his crush on Viktor.


	4. Chapter 4

**-4-**

Some days, Viktor feels better.

The walls of his apartment don’t feel quite as suffocating. The idea of leaving his bed and apartment isn’t as daunting. Those days may or may not coincide with Yuri’s visits, but he doesn't want to consider what that might imply.

Viktor isn’t an idiot. He knows any progress he’s made isn’t because of him. He owes it all to Yuri. He isn’t even sure he’d be here right now if it weren’t for Yuri's determination. He’s not sure what Yuri sees in him, why he even cares. Viktor is thankful all the same.

Lost in thought, he barely notices his phone vibrate, almost falling off the table. Viktor smiles as he looks down at the screen. He doesn’t remember when he started to charge it again.

_Wanna take the beast for a walk?_

_Sure_ … he types out. _When?_

_Be ready in 20 min_

Viktor smiles again. After several seconds, another message appears.

_Don’t bother with your hair this time_

Viktor shakes his head, smile growing even wider. _You wound me Yuri not everyone is as naturally cute as you._ Wait a minute… Viktor frowns. He quickly deletes the text. What the fuck is he doing? He can’t flirt with Yuri, even if he wants to, _especially_ after being all over him during their movie night. He doesn’t want Yuri to get the wrong idea, and Viktor knows that Yuri doesn’t feel _that_ way about him. He’s certain. Yuri’s only tolerating him because of Yakov. He deletes the text and types something more appropriate.

 _Fine. See you soon ; )_ Unable to help himself, he adds a winking face. He is still Viktor Nikiforov after all.

Still smiling, he tugs on the collar of his sweatshirt, trying to flatten it out. He hopes he looks alright. Although Yuri said not to worry about his hair, Viktor isn’t used to going out in public anymore. He still feels weird about it. Since his return to Russia, he hasn’t been recognized as often, but old habits die hard. From a young age, his mother told him never to go out in public without looking his best. Twenty minutes will never get him looking perfect, especially at his age.

With a heavy sigh, he studies himself in the mirror, fluffing his hair. It doesn’t look too bad. He still needs a haircut, but after adding some product, it looks at least somewhat presentable. Even if Yuri doesn’t think about him that way, would _never_ think about him that way, Viktor still needs to try something. He needs to hide some of his pain, to show Yuri how appreciative he is for everything he’s done for him. Hopefully, he can make it through the afternoon without making too much of a fool of himself.

 

* * *

“Idiot…you’re late.”

Viktor smiles, waving at Yuri enthusiastically. “Sorry, Yura. Makka needed to stop along the way.”

Yuri shakes his head, raising his eyes toward the sky. “Don’t blame the dog.” He wrinkles his nose, looking Viktor over closely. “I see you did your hair.” He snorts. “Still looks awful.”

“Shut up, Yura. At least my clothes match.” Viktor raises his eyebrows, shooting Yuri a pointed look.

Yuri pouts, shoving his hands in the pockets of his neon green hoodie. “You _wish_ you had my fashion sense.”

Viktor can feel his cheeks flush. He sort of agrees. Yuri can make anything look good. Since when did Yuri have this effect on him? “Let’s just go,” he whines.

Yuri offers a cute, little smirk in return and Viktor thinks his embarrassment is almost worth it. _Almost_.

They start walking down the long trail, a slower, casual pace than usual. Yuri stands way too close, matching his steps with Viktor’s long strides, once in a while bumping into his shoulders. Viktor’s heart flutters, his cheeks reddening again. He bites down on his tongue and attempts to breathe through his nose, trying to ignore the warm, dizzying feeling spreading throughout his body. They’re just walking, no way it should feel this good. _Vitya, control yourself._

When Viktor returned to Russia, he was afraid he’d never feel again. He was completely dead inside. It had been months since he felt anything. Even when Yuuri left him for good, Viktor didn't feel anything besides defeat. But now, things are slowly changing. Yuri is waking him up, re-igniting a passion for life that Viktor thought he’d never feel for anything except skating. Too bad it’s completely one-sided. Isn’t it?

Viktor shakes his head. Yuri’s twelve years his junior. He’s been on top of the figure skating world for the last few years. The last thing he needs is a has-been like Viktor. No, he should ignore his feelings and keep quiet— that way he can keep enjoying this strange arrangement with Yuri, whatever it is.

They continue walking, approaching the stone bridge where Makka likes to take a rest. Viktor tries not to lose himself in his thoughts and Yuri chatters next to him, complaining about Yakov and the younger members of the Russian team. It’s so simple, so casual. Viktor can barely breathe.

“What’s with you?” Yuri asks, placing a hand on his arm. “Why so quiet?”

Viktor freezes, tugging on Makkachin's leash. He'd hoped Yuri wouldn’t notice his restlessness. “Nothing.” He pulls his arm out of Yuri’s grasp and shrugs. “Just enjoying the weather.”

Yuri narrows his eyes. “Bullshit. Something is up.” His jaw tightens. “I know we haven’t been close, but you can tell me. Talk to me if you want. I won’t…I _won’t_ tell anyone.”

There’s an edge to Yuri’s voice, a quiet desperation that disturbs Viktor. The last thing he wants is to cause Yuri any more pain. Why can’t he do anything right?

Sighing, he faces away from Yuri and takes the lasts few steps toward the bridge. He props his elbows against the ledge, staring out into the horizon as Yuri and Makkachin join him. Boy did this feel familiar. “I know that.” He hangs his head, not sure how to get the words out. There are so many things he wants to ask. He’s desperate to know what Yuri’s thinking, desperate to know what he wants from him, if anything at all. But— at the same time, he knows this relationship is still delicate. He doesn’t want to fuck it up. It means too much to him.

“It’s beautiful here,” Viktor finally says, leaning away from Yuri into the breeze. As if on cue, the breeze picks up, blowing his hair away from his face, off his shoulders.

He thinks he hears Yuri gasp but pushes the thought away. No way! Why would Yuri be affected by him? Viktor supposes that Yuri might’ve had a crush on him once upon a time, but that was so long ago, back when Viktor was worth liking, when he was young and beautiful. What did an old man like him have to offer now? Absolutely nothing. He grimaces, waiting for Yuri to call him out for changing the subject. He doesn't.

“Reminds me of Hasetsu.”

Viktor begins to choke. He can’t believe that Yuri went there. In all the time he’s been back, Yuri has been so careful not to bring up Yuuri or Japan, other than that one time they watched that awful horror film. While grateful, he’s also confused. Curious. Everyone else — Yakov, Chris, Mila and Georgi — all the tabloids — they'd tried to get him to talk, desperate to know what happened — why the “golden couple” had broken up?

“It does," Viktor agrees. He lifts his head, glancing at Yuri who’s also leaning against the bridge, playing with the strings of his sweatshirt. He searches Yuri's face, looking for some sort of clue to what he’s thinking. His usually expressive eyes appear blank. “But it smells different. The air in Hasetsu is just…I don’t know how to explain it...lighter.”

Yuri nods. “I know what you mean.”

Viktor bites his tongue. This is the most serious conversation they’ve had in weeks. After their argument, they’ve kept all their conversations light. Viktor was thankful that Yuri didn’t push, didn’t demand anything from him. It was refreshing but confusing too. This Yuri is different than the one he remembered. Sure, he’s still a pain in the ass, but the younger Yuri never respected boundaries. He was a spoiled little shit, who needed to know everything and used every opportunity to gain one up on his opponents, just like Viktor did at his age. He must have some type of investment in this. Viktor needs to know, regardless the cost.

“Why?”

“Huh?” Yuri stops playing with his sweatshirt. He turns to face Viktor.

“It’s been weeks, Yuri.” Viktor attempts a casual tone, pretending that this conversation isn’t killing him inside, destroying his already fragile nerves. “We’ve been hanging out for weeks,” he shakes his head, “or whatever the hell this is…and you haven’t once asked.”

“About what?” Yuri breathes, eyes wide with horror.

Viktor takes a shaky breath, hoping he won't regret this. “About Yuuri. The divorce! Why things ended?” He accidentally drops Makkachin's leash.

“Oh, that,” Yuri says, almost sardonic. He bows his head and tugs on the back of his short ponytail. Viktor pretends it doesn’t affect him. “What’s there to ask? The tabloids already covered it.” He tries to laugh it off but it sounds forced. “I figured if you wanted to talk about it…you would.”

“I see.” Viktor creases his brow, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. Why is Yuri behaving this way? Is he serious? Is he really not curious about Viktor’s past, his mistakes? Everyone else is dying to know. Why would Yuri be any different?

“Besides,” Yuri adds, breaking the silence, “I could ask you the same. Why haven’t you asked about Otabek? The whole world knows we broke up unless you're really that self-centered.”

Viktor stiffens. He takes a step back. “I-I—” Of course, he heard about Otabek! Everyone wondered what happened to figure skating’s newest power couple. Rumor had it that Otabek found solace in Leroy. Instagram photos surfaced of the two training together in Canada. Viktor worried that Yuri might be upset— that perhaps that’s why he’s been focusing on Viktor instead. It’s not his place to ask though, especially not after what Yuri just revealed. All of his former bravado fades. He tucks his hands in his pockets, willing them to stop shaking.

“It’s none of my business." He cringes at the high-pitched tone of his voice. Yuri doesn’t respond, just blinks and stares. Each moment of silence gnaws at Viktor’s chest, making it increasingly harder to breathe. What if Yuri never speaks to him again?

“Is it true?” Yuri eventually asks and slowly Viktor catches his breath. “Did you cheat?” There’s no accusation or malice in his voice, just genuine, radical curiosity. “The tabloids say he left you for Phichit.”

“Yes,” Viktor answers without hesitation. “I was…” He gives a pained smile. “I was a terrible husband.” He takes a breath, chest still tight. “Things were bad for a long time. But Yuuri was in denial, didn’t want to admit anything was wrong, no matter how much I pushed him away.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “He couldn’t ignore that. Too much even for him.”

“Oh.”

“That’s all you have to say!”

“What do you want me to say?” Yuri clenches his fists. He steps toward Viktor, closing the distance between them. His pupils are blown and gaze so intense that Viktor feels a pang in his chest. “That was fucking shitty of you,” Yuri says. He lifts his chin and straightens his shoulders. “You’re an asshole. But I already knew that, so I’m not surprised.”

“Right.” Viktor has no idea what to make of Yuri’s response. Having him so close is not helping either. “You knew I’d fuck it up.” Viktor grimaces.

Yuri throws his head back, offering a bitter laugh. “It’s not like I can talk. I treated Beka like shit too. Not surprising he doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. This is news to him. Since Yuri’s first year on the tour, Beka was Yuri’s best friend. They were inseparable. Losing Yuuri was hard, but at least he still had Christophe. He can’t imagine how painful it would be to lose your best friend and partner. “I’m so sorry, Yura,” Viktor says. He finds that he means it.

Yuri shrugs. “It’s not like I didn’t deserve it. I’m an asshole too.”

“What happened?” Viktor hesitates. “You don’t—”

Yuri protests, holding up a hand. “It’s not a secret. Beka is amazing.” Yuri sounds wistful. “He loved me more than I deserved. Wanted to give me everything.” He shakes his head, smiling fondly. “The fucking sap wanted to get married, to move in together.” Yuri scrunches his eyes closed and blanches, color draining from his face. “And I—” His voice wavers. “I couldn’t...No, I _wouldn’t_.” He bites his lip, eyes growing more and more pained. “We wanted different things.”

“I’m still sorry.” Viktor reaches out and squeezes Yuri’s shoulder. “I know how much you cared for him.”

“I did.” Yuri responds with a somber smile. “I still do. But it was the right thing. People like Otabek,” he meets Viktor’s eyes, offering such a devastated yet earnest look, “like Yuuri…they don’t deserve fuck ups like us.”

Viktor hums and nods. He couldn’t agree more. Even if he doesn’t believe that Yuri is anywhere as fucked up as he is, he understands. Viktor knows what it takes to be the best— the sacrifices, what it feels like to constantly exchange pieces of your soul for gold, to sink deeper and deeper into emptiness, to wonder if it was all worth it.

Being with Yuuri became exhausting. He was always so desperate not to disappoint him, to live up to the perfect Viktor Nikiforov image of his dreams. He failed. Miserably.

“I was tired of pretending.” Viktor doesn’t look at Yuri, afraid to see his reaction, not sure why he’s sharing such personal information.

“Fuck yes.” Yuri laughs. “It was exhausting, trying to be everything he wanted. Trying to always be so goddamn good.” He gives a slight shrug. “Sometimes, I just wanted to be an asshole.”

Viktor’s eyes widen. That’s exactly how he feels. Biting his lip, he reaches out and grabs Yuri’s hand, squeezing it. He’s pleasantly shocked when Yuri returns the squeeze.

“I know the feeling.”

Viktor gazes at Yuri, observing him more closely than he has in a long time. Of course, he knows that Yuri isn’t a child anymore, not the same teenager he knew all those years ago. He’s a man now, 26 years old, a 4x world champion, a legend in his own right. But his eyes…something in those fucking gorgeous eyes…reminds him way too much of himself. How has he never noticed?

“Yura—” he starts, not sure what to say…how to reach the person he once considered a rival, his replacement. He steps closer, so close that he can feel Yuri's breath against his lips. It hurts to look at him. When did he get so fucking beautiful? _He’s always been beautiful_ , a voice scolds in the back of his mind, _You just never wanted to see_.

Viktor swallows loudly. He's filled with an overwhelming desire to lick Yuri's lips, wondering if he tastes like that sugar-free gum he's always chewing. He wets his lips, trying to decide if by some miracle Yuri wants this too. He's about to lean in and take his chance, when Makkachin tugs on his leash. He rubs against Viktor's leg, demanding attention, snapping Viktor out of his momentary loss of sanity.

“Looks like Makka is ready to go…”

Viktor’s chest aches, a sharp, stabbing pain he hasn't felt since announcing his retirement. He can’t pretend he isn’t disappointed. Connecting with Yuri was painful but eye opening. What had he been thinking all these years? Was it a mistake to underestimate Yuri?

“Are you sure?” 

“It’s fine.” Yuri waves him off. He bends down to pet Makkachin. “It’s getting late. We should head back.”

“Alright.”

Forcing his face into a neutral expression, he grabs Makkachin’s leash and starts walking. His stomach protests all the way home.

“Thank you for walking with us,” Viktor says when they reach his apartment door. It feels weird to have Yuri walk him home, a role that usually belongs to him.

“Don’t mention it,” Yuri mumbles, not quite meeting Viktor’s eyes. “See you next week?”

“Of course, Yura.” Viktor ruffles Yuri's hair, ignoring his groans.

Conflicted or not, Viktor is not ready to give Yuri up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated<3
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://icicle33.tumblr.com/)


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